Enough Space in this World for Two of Us
by imwiththesociopath
Summary: Sherlock and Jim are alive! John is now on the road to recovery and Sebastian is... unsurprised. But for how long can the two couples be happy in each other's arms? Is there really enough space in this world for both of them?


_**There's Only Enough Space in This World for Two of Us **_

_A Sherlock Fanfic_

Chapter 1

A text flashed on Sherlock Holmes's phone.

'From: Unknown'

"Hi Sherlock,

Bet you've missed me. Meet me in the old confectionary factory so we can have a catch up. Don't be too long!

Jim x"

Sherlock closed the message, clenching his teeth. Only Jim Moriarty would be able to shoot himself in the head and survive. He had surpassed himself yet again in a feat that only Sherlock could top. Sherlock pulled his hoodie further over his eyes as a forty-five year old estate agent that was having an affair with his wife's sister hurried past.

Sherlock couldn't help feeling impressed, but he wasn't surprised that Moriarty could still text with half of his brain blown out of his head. He had been expecting that text as soon as he pulled the trigger and was - to be honest - surprised it had taken Moriarty this long. Nevertheless, he had been hoping that he could've had even longer to prepare himself.

Sherlock Holmes had been living on Molly Hooper's sofa for the last three years. Of course she didn't mind helping Sherlock get back on his feet. He had been even more covert than usual, with his outbursts and tantrums becoming more and more frequent and unreasonable. She always assured herself that that was how anybody would behave if all of their friends thought they had jumped off a building (it went without saying that Sherlock would do everything that bit more extravagantly than anyone else).

Well, all of his friends except for her. Her only requests were that Sherlock would clear off when she had friends over and that he would 'please not shoot holes in the wall when he was bored.' She had been teaching him calming exercises that she had learnt from her therapist.

"Whenever you feel bored, or frustrated, or angry…" Molly had been telling him when Sherlock had broken a lamp in a surge of anger.

"But I _always _feel bored, frustrated and angry," Sherlock interrupted.

"I know, but when you feel like you're about to break something - just stop, take some deep breaths and focus on your… happy place," Molly suggested. Sherlock just glared at her, and stormed out of the door, slamming it behind him. After three years he had hoped Molly had realised that any happiness he had gained while he was partners with John had disintegrated into a thick pit of despair.

He was now slowly walking towards the old chocolate factory; where he and John had discovered those dying children that Moriarty had planted to sow the first seeds of doubt into the police force's minds. He had virtually no clue what Moriarty was planning this time, but Sherlock knew there were few ways that Moriarty could make Sherlock's pain worse - to kill him was one. Though now he thought about it, dying would be a considerable option. It would dull the agony anyway.

Then there was of course John. Doctor John Watson. Sherlock crippled over even thinking that name. He clutched his chest. It felt like his heart was in a vice, being crushed and twisted. He cried out. Even though it was the middle of the night, there were some people walking past. They stopped for a moment to peer over to see if this tall, thin man was okay. Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive way and giving a shrug, the passers-by wandered off, continuing with whatever business had brought them to that street.

Yes. That was going to be it if Moriarty wanted to hurt Sherlock more. He would have John - John, his saviour and the root of his downfall. He thought back to what Mycroft had said all those years ago: "Caring is not an advantage." Sherlock had thought back to this many times. He always wished that he had taken Mycroft's words into account a little more, and had sent John away before he started to care. But soon after thinking this he would always remember. Sherlock Holmes can't stay away from John Watson.

He quickened his pace.

Chapter 2

John Watson stood staring blankly at the front door of 221b Baker Street. He didn't know how long he had been there - his eyes studying the curves of the door knocker and the scratches on the paint -when Mrs Hudson opened it. The concern that used to fill her eyes when John was like this had diminished and had been replaced with exasperation.

"John?" she sighed, her eyes sweeping his face, up and down, "do you want to come inside, love?" But John just stood there, his eyes unmoving from Mrs Hudson's face. She sighed again and put her arm around him, leading him inside.

"It's been three years," Mrs Hudson said quietly, as if talking to a child. She sat him down on the sofa and then sat herself down next to him. "Three years, John. You've got to move on. He isn't coming back." She told him slowly. But John just sat there.

"John!" she shouted. She had come to her wits end. She had put up with John's wallowing for too long. He jumped at the sudden sound. "I'm sick and tired of looking after you. I am not your housekeeper or your nurse. Snap out of it!" she hit him on the shoulder. "I understand. It was Sherlock. He was amazing and he 'saved' you, but do you really think this is what he would've wanted, for you to not move on with your life? Go out, get a girlfriend, you've had plenty of offers but you turned all of them down… even the pretty ones!"

John's gaze finally shifted so he could look at Mrs Hudson. "No... You don't understand," he whispered, "I have not been… attracted to anyone in that way or in any way. Not those women, not anyone. I know some of them were pretty; some of them seemed nice and interesting enough. I don't know. One of them might have been the woman that I would've settled down with, had a family with. But that's irrelevant. I just can't think of anyone that way." John's eyes started to glisten as he let the past three years spill out of his mouth. His hands gripped the sofa and his voice got shriller as he relived his sorrow.

"You don't think I've tried? You don't think I've tried to move on and go on dates? Believe me, I have. I've tried… so hard. No matter what I did to distract myself just made the pain worse. So I stopped trying. You can judge me; you can pity me, but don't even begin to think that you can understand what the hell I'm going through."

Mrs Hudson was taken aback by this sudden outburst. John had not been able to string one sentence together for the past two years, never mind let himself go and scream his innermost thoughts to her.

"I-I'm sorry. You're right. I don't know what you're going through." Mrs Hudson voice had been reduced back to a less patronising quiet tone. She squeezed his hand and walked out of the door, to let him be alone.

Once, Mrs Hudson had closed the door he buried his face in his hands and started to sob uncontrollably. Tears that had been building up were finally being let out. His sobbing became so hysterical he was almost screaming. He rocked back and forth. He just screamed, and rocked. The screams morphed into Sherlock's name. Eventually he started to lose his voice, and the screams became whispers.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," John whispered, shaking. He started to hyperventilate. He was having a nervous breakdown again, the worst one yet. His teeth chattered as his whole body shuddered violently. He wrapped his arms around himself, digging his long, uncut nails into his back.

"I'm so cold, Sherlock. So cold…" he hissed through his clenched teeth as he tried to control his shaking.

He stood up and the shaking stopped abruptly, though he was still breathing heavily. He had had enough of this. There was no way of getting over Sherlock. Well… there was one way. John walked over to the dresser, opened a draw and pulled out his pistol. His fingers clenched over the cool metal as he put it in his pocket. He opened the door - wiping the uncomfortable layer of tears off his face - and walked out, not bothering to put his coat on even though it was the middle of the night in December.

John hailed a taxi and got into the back. He sat there for a moment, wondering where he should go.

"Where to?" a voice from the front asked.

"Um," John murmured. Where could he go? Somewhere with no interruptions obviously, the last thing he wanted was for an audience. The only place he could think of was the old chocolate factory in the middle of nowhere where Sherlock found those kids… "This may sound really weird, but - I'm paying you so…" he explained where the factory was as best he could. Astonishingly for John, the driver knew where he was talking about. It turns out that the factory was almost infamous after that case. It had been years though, so there would be no one hanging around there, especially at this time of night.

The journey was a long one, and John just switched off so he didn't have to think about what would happen when he arrived at his destination. Thankfully, the driver wasn't talkative so he didn't pry or say anything for the entirety of the trip, leaving John to his thoughts - or his lack of them.

The cab drew up next to the huge warehouse. "That'll be twenty quid, mate," the driver told him.

"Twenty pounds! …" John exclaimed, but then he stopped, realising that it didn't matter anymore. He gave over the money and stepped out of the car. He walked straight through the doors of the building. He didn't want to waste any more time before he started to have doubts.

He walked deep into the vast, space filled with abandoned machinery. John almost smiled as he realised how fitting this location was. The machines were abandoned, like John; and dead, like John would soon be. He felt surprisingly calm as he sank down by a bulky metal cylinder and closed his eyes. This was it. He would finally be with Sherlock forever. He reached for the gun in his pocket.

He stopped. He heard the doors of the factory opening. But he felt too weak to stand up and see whom had interrupted his suicide, so instead kept his eyes closed and stroked the trigger of his gun with his index finger, waiting for the intruder to leave. The footsteps of the intruder got louder as they got closer to him. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped; and then he heard them break into a run. The intruder was shouting something - his name.

"John. John!" It was Sherlock's voice. Of course, he should've known that his ears would be playing tricks on him in his final hour. It was a nice trick though, the sound was comforting. He opened his eyes to see if they were hallucinating too.

They were. He could see the tall figure of Sherlock running towards him. The hallucination kneeled beside him and, seeing the gun in John's hand, grabbed it from him. John whimpered as the comfort of the gun was snatched away.

"You know for a figment of my imagination, you're very annoying," John chuckled weakly.

"John. John, listen to me. Why are you here? Is Moriarty here with you? Did he hurt you?" Sherlock questioned John desperately.

"What? You know why I'm here, Sherlock, you're in my head after all."

"I - In your head? No, I'm real. I'm alive. I'm…"

"Stop it," John interrupted, his smile turning into a frown, "That's just cruel. You're supposed to help me through to you, not confuse me like that. Stupid, horrible mind," John hit himself over the head and started to cry. Sherlock, still in a state of shock, grabbed John's hand.

"Don't do that…" he started desperately, and then calmed himself before coming to his senses. An expression of realisation crossed his face and he looked solemnly at John.

"I know why you're here. Moriarty didn't bring you, did he? You brought yourself. You were going to... Moriarty must have known you were coming here to…" he looked down and choked out a small sob. He sighed and started again.

"Trying to persuade you that I'm real so you won't kill yourself is my torture," he looked into John's deranged eyes, "because I don't think I'm going to be able to persuade you."

John looked at Sherlock, twitching his head as the two sides of his brain argued. Sherlock is dead, the dominant side told him, and this is just inside your head. He died when he jumped, and now you've gone insane. But he could hear the other side calling him. Sherlock didn't die, it said, he survived… somehow, and now he's saving you.

"If you are real… why has it taken you three years to tell me you survived?" John asked.

"It was Moriarty. He said that if I didn't jump, he would kill you. He would kill Mrs Hudson and Lestrade too, my only friends... But he didn't know about Molly. So she was the only person that could help me to fake my suicide so that you and Moriarty's snipers would believe that I was dead. I thought Moriarty had killed himself on the roof, but it turns out he had faked it. He sent me a text saying that he was here. So I came. That means that he knew I was alive, but wanted to watch us suffer apart from each other." Sherlock explained. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know it would lead to this… I just couldn't watch you die." He gripped John's hand tightly.

John stared at Sherlock's hand around his for a while.

"He knows exactly how to make us suffer then," he said finally. Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"You believe me then, you believe that I'm real."

"Yes… I think so. It was just so long, Sherlock. It was so painful."

"I know. I'm never going to leave you again. Ever, and you won't either. Promise me," Sherlock grabbed John's other hand.

"Of course," John choked out. Sherlock smiled widely and wrapped his arm tightly around John.

"I'm never letting you go again," Sherlock whispered into John's ear.

"This shouldn't be happening. I probably am crazy... But I don't care, even if I am," John said wrapping his arms around Sherlock. They stayed there for a second, just in each other's arms.

Suddenly, John slapped Sherlock fiercely over the face.

"Ow!" exclaimed Sherlock, rubbing his cheek.

"I may understand why you did it but that doesn't mean I'm not absolutely furious with you. I hate you for destroying my life." John glared at Sherlock.

"I love you, Sherlock," John spluttered.

"I love you, John," Sherlock replied, putting his arms around John again, "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, stop apologising. There was nothing you could do," John reassured him in between sniffing, tightening his grip. "You have no idea how happy I am right now."

"I think I do," Sherlock withdrew from the embrace a little so he could look into John's eyes, but still have his arms around him. He tentatively leaned in, breathing hot air on to John's face.

This was the warmth he had been missing, thought John as he let Sherlock's breath flow over his face. He closed his eyes and let the heat flow through his veins, heating up his entire body. Sherlock closed the small gap between their mouths. John started at this new sensation of Sherlock's lips against his - new, but a bit really good. He never wanted it to end.

Chapter 3

"Jim calling

Pick up?"

Sebastian groaned. He was in the middle of a job and the Bee Gees _had_ to be his ring tone. His victim turned around, confused at where the sound was coming from. Sebastian rolled his eyes, opened the wardrobe door and shot the Brazilian drug dealer. He stepped over the bleeding body and sat down at the hotel room table. He pressed "Answer."

"Yes boss?" Sebastian said, putting the phone on Speaker and laying it down on the table with his gun.

"Seb honey, I've got another job for you. It's very important, so I would appreciate the favour," Jim Moriarty said to Sebastian through the phone.

"I was just in the middle of the last job you gave me when you called. It's very unprofessional when you do that. Not to mention annoying." Sebastian lit a cigarette and leant back in the chair.

"Oh so sorry, it's not as if I wouldn't kill you if you declined my call," Jim teased. Sebastian's eyes flitted to the ceiling at that comment.

"No, you wouldn't. Anyway, what's this about a _favour_? I am getting paid, right?"

"I would've thought the satisfaction of doing it would be enough payment."

"Wow, this guy must be important. Who is it?"

"All of this business talk is so _boring._ Can't we just have phone sex instead?"

"It was you who called me about business, boss," Sebastian made some smoke rings.

"I love it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Do those smoke thingies," Jim purred. Sebastian swivelled around, his eyes searching for a camera, or Jim himself.

"Don't you have better things to do then follow me?" Sebastian smirked.

"Nope, the most fun thing I have to do is stalk you."

"Where are you?"

"I'm outside the door honey. I'm surprised you can't hear me. All those gun shots going off in your ears must be making you go deaf."

"I do use a silencer you know," Sebastian muttered taking his phone off Speaker and putting it to his ear. He walked over to the hotel room door and opened it.

Jim Moriarty was standing outside wearing a pink Hawaiian shirt, green shorts and bright white sandals; and had accumulated a deep orangey, brown tan. He looked ridiculous. Sebastian ended the call and put the phone in his pocket.

"Afternoon, Sebastian," Jim smiled, raising an eyebrow. He took the cigarette out of Sebastian's mouth and put it in his, taking a deep drag and sweeping past him into the room. He lay seductively on the bed, the cigarette drooping out of his mouth.

"Well?" said Jim. "Aren't you going to ravish me?"

"I would, but you are looking absurdly unsexy. Also, he's watching," Sebastian said, looking down at the body of the overweight, balding Brazilian man bleeding on the floor. Jim cocked his head to look at the corpse.

"Yes, I suppose he is a little off-putting…" Jim said. He pouted at Sebastian. "Honey, please can you show our little friend to the bathroom so he can clean himself up."

Sebastian jutted out his chin. It wasn't the first time he had had to do Jim's dirty work, but he wanted to tear the clothes off him instead of having to pull a fat dead guy into the next room. He grabbed the drug dealer's shirt with both hands and hauled him into the en-suite bathroom. Even though Sebastian was very strong, it took some effort to get the enormous mass the few feet he needed to so he could close the bathroom door.

He turned around and Jim was standing barely inches away from him, grinning up at Sebastian. He jumped; he hadn't heard him come over to him.

"Don't do that!" Sebastian exclaimed, a little short of breath from the shock.

"You can't tell me what to do," Jim grinned, lightly, but firmly slapping Sebastian across his rock-hard chest.

"That shirt is so hideous I think I'm going to have to rip it off you," growled Sebastian.

"Oh," whined Jim sticking out his bottom lip, "I love this shirt." Sebastian snarled and furiously kissed Jim while clawing at the buttons of the shocking shirt. Jim helped him, breaking away for a second to totally pull it off.

Jim's hands tangled in Sebastian's thick, blonde hair. Sebastian locked his arms around Jim's now bare back and fell onto the bed, taking him down with him. He pinned Jim's arms down.

"So much for this being a business trip…" Sebastian muttered, kissing Jim. Jim laughed through the kiss, turning Sebastian over so he was under him. Jim sat up, straddling him. Sebastian whimpered and tried to drag him back down into another kiss but Jim resisted.

"Nah-ah! You're going to have to…" Jim bent down to whisper in Sebastian's ear, "_Beg." _He nibbled his ear.

"I love you," sighed Sebastian. Jim's face shot away from Sebastian's ear, his face riddled with a puzzling mixture of emotions – confusion, curiosity, shock, unease, happiness... Sebastian stared worriedly at Jim.

"What is it?" he asked him.

"You said you love me, you've never said that before," Jim replied.

"Well, I love you." Sebastian said, matter-of-factly.

"That's a dangerous position to be in, to love the most dangerous man in the world."

"It's a dangerous position to be in love with anyone. Do you love me?" Sebastian enquired innocently. Jim narrowed his eyes at Sebastian as if trying to find the answer in his eyes. He rolled off Sebastian so they were lying on their backs, staring at each other. Jim caressed Sebastian's face gently.

"Yes," he sighed. "I _hate _feeling so…"

"So what?"

"_Vulnerable."_

Chapter 4

Sherlock and John had gone back to the flat in a daze. They had been unable to take their eyes off each other in fear of losing each other again. This had caused some problems… but they didn't care. Neither of them even cared that they had almost got themselves run over by a car, because they were too busy looking into each other's eyes to look before crossing the road. John had absolutely no worries and no other thoughts in fact apart from that Sherlock was alive, that Sherlock loved him, that he loved Sherlock.

Sherlock, on the other hand, still had one nagging worry at the back of his mind. What would Moriarty do when he found out both he and John were alive? Hadn't he, after all, meant for John to kill himself back there, with Sherlock killing himself shortly afterwards? He rested his head on John's lap. He flexed his fingers and placed them over his lips, the way he always did when he was detached from the outside world.

John stroked Sherlock's long, messy black hair. It needed a trim. It felt just, nice - sitting on the sofa with Sherlock again. Well, John sitting on the sofa and Sherlock lying on him, his long legs drooping off the arm rest. He smiled.

"A penny for your thoughts?" said John. Sherlock broke away from his train of thought and shook his head.

"No, I don't want to ruin this," replied Sherlock. John traced Sherlock's jawline with his finger.

"Oh," John paused, "I've always admired how you can just disconnect yourself from the world."

"It must be annoying for you, I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's alright," reassured John, "it's just one of the many things that add up to make me feel unbelievably ordinary next to you. I don't deserve someone so special." Sherlock's head snapped up to look right at John, his eyes unsettlingly wide and stern.

"Don't ever say that again, John Watson. You are the most special man I know. Why else would I love you?" Sherlock told him, as if that settled the matter.

"Your judgement must be clouded," John grumbled.

Sherlock scoffed.

"How would you know if it wasn't? You've never been in love before," John continued, a little dampened by Sherlock's scoffing.

"All I know is that I had no heart and no capacity for love, or even liking other humans before I met you. Cleverness and logic is… inane in the face of love. I should've realised that a while ago. I would have happily given up my ability to put two and two together in exchange for your ability to _feel. _The mind of a criminal is simple and easy to understand because they have no aptitude for emotion, that's why I find you so much more interesting."

John's mouth formed a small 'o'. He didn't know that Sherlock's heart had been exposed by that much, totally revealing the extraordinary size of it. Now he felt special. He stared into Sherlock's eyes as the colours in the rings around his pupils danced. Sea blue, emerald green, storm grey and smouldering gold hues swirled as Sherlock stared back. Sherlock grabbed John's shirt and pulled him down into a kiss, he lifted his hands and held John's face. John tucked his hands under Sherlock's head and grasped his hair. They stayed there for a while, just kissing, making up for lost time.

It was a piercing scream that finally interrupted them. John looked up and saw Mrs Hudson in her dressing gown and slippers looking at Sherlock with her hands over her mouth, her eyes set in a petrified stare. They hadn't heard her come in to the room to check on John. She had heard him go out, and then come back a few hours later; but John and Sherlock hadn't been talking at that point, so she had no idea of John's companion when he returned. Sherlock rolled off the sofa and jumped up to comfort Mrs Hudson.

"Wh - what," stuttered Mrs Hudson.

"Don't scream again," Sherlock put his hands on Mrs Hudson's shoulders.

"I told you he's alive," muttered John, smirking a little.

"You're alive? You idiot!" screamed Mrs Hudson, slapping him.

"What is it with people and slapping me today?" whined Sherlock, holding his cheek and looking at John for the answer. John raised an eyebrow.

"You've angered quite a few people, Sherlock," said John. Sherlock grumbled and sat back down on the sofa next to John, nursing his cheek.

"But – you made me think you were dead!" Mrs Hudson said, pointing in disbelief at Sherlock.

"I know, that was the point," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. Mrs Hudson fell into an armchair.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a bit shocked," she said quietly.

"I don't blame you," mumbled Sherlock.

"Why?" she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

"There's an extremely evil man, and he told me to jump off a building or he would get someone to kill you, John and Lestrade..." Sherlock explained the whole story to Mrs Hudson right up to meeting John in the factory. He decided to leave out the reason John was there, much to John's relief.

She didn't interrupt, apart from the occasional sigh and gasp. The petrified expression didn't leave her face for the entirety of the tale. She took a few moments to absorb the overwhelming new information and stood up, unsteady on her feet.

"I think I need a cup of tea," she said, wobbling out of the room.

"I would love one," Sherlock shouted after her.

As soon as the door closed, John turned Sherlock's head towards him and kissed him softly.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know. You've said that already," Sherlock said, smiling.

"I just don't want you to forget." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, kissing him again.

"It's very late," Sherlock said after he had withdrawn from the kiss and looked at his watch. "It's half past five in the morning. I think we should go to bed."

"I'm not tired," John insisted, though he could feel that his eyelids were uncomfortably heavy.

"Yes you are. I may have started caring, but I haven't lost all of my powers of deduction," he and John laughed.

"I never thought I'd laugh again, especially not at your expense," John said - standing up and making his way to what he assumed was now his _and_ Sherlock's room - giving into the exhaustion. Sherlock followed him, touching John's hand.

John sat on the bed and stripped so that he was wearing only his underwear, blushing a little when he saw Sherlock doing the same. They both lay down on the bed and wrapped the covers tightly around themselves, because it was freezing cold. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and pulled him close so John's cheek was resting against Sherlock's chest. John nuzzled his cheek against Sherlock's warm skin and wrapped his arms around him.

Sherlock rested one hand on John's hip and stroked the back of his neck with the other. He kissed the top of John's head, leaving his lips to rest in his hair.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," said John quietly. He didn't feel cold anymore with Sherlock's hands touching him. In fact, he felt so warm that he didn't think that he'd ever feel cold again.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock mumbled back through John's hair.

Chapter 5

Sebastian abruptly awoke just before the sun rose to find he was in Jim's arms, his head resting on his chest. Jim was awake, and had been for a while. He had just been staring at Sebastian, and admiring the contours of what he thought was his beautiful face.

As he felt Sebastian breathing deeply in his sleep, his chest moving up and down, he couldn't help but feel almost disappointed in himself. True, it was a nice feeling to be in love – all warm and fuzzy – but he had lost, what was in his mind, his greatest asset: lack of compassion. He felt abnormally weak. As if he would fall over if he stood up and didn't have Sebastian to hold him… and he didn't like that in the slightest.

"Go back to sleep, love," said Jim in a soothing way, though his face was stony. Sebastian obliged. It was barely four in the morning. So he nestled gently back into Jim's bare chest and adjusted his body so he could lay his arm over him. Jim groaned a little at Sebastian's arm. Sebastian's touch had suddenly made what he knew he had to do to start to regain his power so much harder. It had reminded him about how much it was going to hurt.

After a few minutes, once Jim knew Sebastian was in a deep enough sleep, he slid his arms from underneath and off the top off Sebastian and gently lifted Sebastian's arm off of him. He got off the bed as quietly as he could and retrieved his items of clothing from around the room. He smirked as he recalled the events of the night before; but quickly wiped the smirk off his face when he reminded himself that reminiscing was a bad idea if he wanted to try to wipe Sebastian from his mind completely.

He pulled his clothes on and opened the hotel room door as quietly as he could. He took what he thought would be his final look at Sebastian.

"Goodbye," he whispered and closed the door behind him.

No sooner had he walked out of the hotel building into the humid outside air and his phone buzzed. Jim retrieved the phone from his pocket.

"From: Unknown

They've met. They're still alive."

Jim groaned loudly. They were both supposed to kill themselves! For an ordinary person, John Watson could be really quite annoying. He had under-estimated him; maybe he was more capable of separating reality and the tricks of the mind than he expected... Of course, why hadn't he taken that into consideration? John was a soldier. He'd seen enough reality to know what it looks like.

But still, this was immensely disappointing. Jim had been hoping to get rid of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in one night. They used to be his favourite toys to play with but now they were just getting boring, not to mention annoying. He was surprised he had been entertained with them enough to keep them alive for that long.

Come on, how long had it been? There were the last four years where Jim was directly playing with Sherlock. But there was also all those years after he had discovered him, and began to realise that he could actually be an _almost _worthy opponent. That really was an achievement they could take to the grave. The most his other enemies had survived was maybe two, three weeks?

Now was their time to get brushed off the chessboard, but there's only so long the other pieces can do the king's bidding before the king wants to get some action. Jim's hands – he thought - had been clean for too long, and what better way to dirty them than by killing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson with his own hands. Well with his own finger pulling the trigger… This was going to be fun.

Jim stepped on to the night bus to Rio de Janeiro airport. It was time to go home again.


End file.
